infrastructure breakdown
by zorrie
Summary: trapped between denial and a secret that threatens to uproot her life, elphaba finds herself in a position as unlikely as it is precarious. in the end, it comes down to the lesser of two evils. book verse. precautionary rating for chapter in the works.
1. Chapter 1

Nope, I don't own wicked. Or I wouldn't be posting this on fanfiction.

Originally a bed-ridden boredom induced drabble, I decided to go the whole ten yards and experiment with a plot. That's in the next chap. Meanwhile, here's what's probably the world's shortest chapter.

&&&&

Pale morning light filtered through the window, falling across her face. Even in sleep there was a slight frown to her expression, eyebrows knit together while the corners of her mouth turned down so slightly. Still, she was beautiful. Waves of her hair cascaded off the side of the bed, a tumultuous fall of ebony. One arm was flung haphazardly across the sheets, while the other supported her head, nestled in the crook of its elbow.  
He had the sudden urge to kiss her cheek, to lightly brush a strand of hair into place, to pull her close to him and wrap her in his arms. But he suppressed them, knowing Elphaba wouldn't stand for it.  
She sighed sadly in her sleep, turning her face away from the light. Fiyero tightened his arm around her waist and closed his eyes, burying his face in the hollow of her shoulder. How badly he longed to share her pain, how much he wished she would let him. She was so strong, but that was only because she had to be. He knew somewhere under her antagonist façade she was lonely, frightened even. If only she knew how differently he saw the world now.  
Still, Fiyero understood her need for an individual identity, knew that she needed to feel separate from him. It was her way of trying to protect him. If Elphaba knew how he wanted to help her, she might drift away.  
"I love you, Fae," he murmured softly, searching her face for any sign of reply.  
But she was asleep, lost to all save herself, and there was none.


	2. Chapter 2

Well, I decided my drabble could use a follow up. So here it is. Once more, I don't own anything related to wicked, other than the book and t shirt from the musical. I do apologize, because elphie's been through hell and back enough of times, and I feel kind of mean. But since I already wrote this chapter, I might as well post it.

&&&&

It was a cold and clammy day, and rainclouds hovered above the city, as if debating whether or not to rain. Fiyero draped his opera cape on a chair and collapsed into it, tipping the chair back to stand on two legs. Peering at Elphaba, who was busying around and wringing her hands every now and then, it was apparent something was wrong. Not sure what to do, he tried to catch her gaze; she arduously avoided it.

"fae?"

In response, Elphaba stopped and looked at him, her face strained and her eyes dangerous. She looked…scared? No, scared wasn't a word that anyone could use to describe such a proud, defiant person…apprehensive? Not right, either. Introspection had never been his strong point and he gave up.

"what?" it may have been the atmosphere due to the gloom of the weather, or maybe he was just making too much out of a simple question. Still, it seemed to Fiyero that she threw the word out, like a javelin through the space between them.

At the momentary look of hurt that flashed across Fiyero's face, Elphaba closed her eyes for the briefest instant. There was a look about her that said she wanted to run, but had nowhere to go. Seeing Fiyero's questioning look, she shook her head fiercely, eyes shooting daggers.

"what, indeed?" he asked, stepping closer. With an unreadable expression, Elphaba examined his face, about to speak. But her breath hitched and wordlessly, Fiyero wrapped his arms around her, pressing his lips against her forehead, trying to soothe her writing form.

Elphaba closed her eyes, pressing her head against his chest. Her pulse was pounding in her ears, her mind racing—should she—no, could she tell him? what then? After so many acrimonious years spent underground, she'd forgotten what a comfort a friend could be. Or, more specifically, she'd forgotten how much she longed for one. Fiyero had changed everything; she hadn't realized, hadn't let herself realize…how lonely her life was. But this would change everything now…. If she was totally honest, she was afraid they might not change for the better—she didn't want to be by herself again. Not that she was doing much to tell Fiyero how she felt. It was too dangerous, she couldn't drag him into this mess, it was better that he stayed out of everything. The last thing she needed was the complications that caring for someone would, inevitably, cause.

Elphaba risked a glance at Fiyero's face, sure he would be looking away. But he wasn't, and their eyes met for the slightest moment. It was enough, though, to send shocks down her spine…hypocritical as it sounded, she didn't want…anything…to change. If only time would stop its relentless tirade. And Elphaba hopelessly hoped although she knew this couldn't last.

Pulling away, Elphaba busied herself at the small stove. Fiyero stood, watching her deft movements. She had, despite her agitation—or perhaps because of it?—some transfixing, otherworldly quality about her. It showed in the rigidity with which she held herself, that straightness of spine, the defiance in her eyes, battling the fear in her face.

But what did she have to be afraid of?

&&&& next day

"so, you really can't tell me?"

Fiyero was lounging on the couch, trying for the third day running to elicit from Elphaba the cause of her unease.

"oh, I could. But it's much more fun to keep you on your toes. can and will are two _very_ different words, dearest." She was trying to find a reason not to tell him, something to justify her reluctance, trying to make the whole damn thing into a light, insignificant worry, fear based on paranoia….

"you're being flip."

"you're increasingly annoying to me." Pure elphaba. Sighing in mock defeat, fiyero held up his hands.

"annoying I may be, but at least I'm not—"

"arrogant? Think again, dearie," elphaba interjected.

"obstinate." he stated pointedly.

Getting to his feet and stretching, fiyero feigned despair. "what am I going to do with you…?"

"I can think of a few things…" elphaba remarked, smirking as he raised his eyebrows. Standing behind her, fiyero leaned over the back of the chair and began to massage her shoulders, deft fingers digging in, finding all the right places.

"more than a few, actually," she grinned mischievously. His crawling hands teased her back into a sudden arch, eliciting a slight gasp.

"so…."

"no."

"c'mon--"

"I said no."

But Fiyero noticed how Elphaba leaned into him, shivering at his touch, despite her rebuttals.

"something's been bothering you lately," he said quietly, leaving no room for denial. His hands inched down her back, slowly, along her spine. "You're not answering my question."

"question? I heard no question, nor do I believe you asked one," Elphaba murmured, enjoying his touch.

"I _implied_."

"an implication suggests a reply, but does not demand one, or even particularly _need_ one. Implied things can usually be taken as rhetorical, love."

"must you twist everything I say?"

"but that is the very nature of conversation…"

"why do I bother talking to you?" fiyero asked in mock desperation.

"why, indeed?" but she was smiling. A slight smile, a curl of the lip, more of a sneer, but a loving one. He stared into her face, memorising the jutting lines and sharp angles of her features, strangely beautiful….

"oh, don't look at me like that," elphaba said suddenly, pulling away, as much as she hated to.

"like what?"

"you know what I'm talking about—" her voice rose, as she turned away. "I've been looked at, stared at—every damn day of my life—don't tell me you don't understand! I know that look—" face burning, Elphaba could feel his gaze on her, imagine the confusion on his face. She wasn't so sure of anything anymore, not at all.

Withdrawing behind her wall of fury, she beat away the guilt forming in the pit of her stomach. Why wouldn't she tell him? He would leave, sooner or later—no one would choose to be with her, she knew that much—it wouldn't last, no, couldn't last. Yet how she wished it might. Still, he couldn't stay here forever; he'd have to go back to Sarima eventually. It would be a favor, she told herself; I'll be giving him an excuse to go. He won't have to pretend he wants to be here anymore.

Fiyero saw Elphaba hang her head, her hair swinging forward like a veil, hanging in brackets as she pulled away; if only she would stop pushing him away. Couldn't she see that he cared?

"I wasn't looking at you! Not like that, fae—you know—"

"Know what?" she whispered violently, "That I should have known better than--" but she stopped, that strange emotion flitting across her face.

"than what?" Fiyero asked softly, drawn in by the look on her face, reminiscent of an animal caught in a trap. For the first time he realized that Elphaba wasn't accusing him of not caring enough, although she said she was—she was, in a strange way, voicing her fears. Fear that although she thought he cared--although she wanted him to care--perhaps he really didn't, after all.

Never before had he wanted so strongly to comfort her, to protect her—never before had anything evoked such a strong emotion in him, and never before had Fiyero felt so strongly. Elphaba must have seen it in his face, for she briskly pulled herself back together and brushed him away with the greatest effort of self-control.

"I won't stand for this," said evenly. Elphaba turned her back on Fiyero and, rising from her chair, began to walk away. Grabbing her wrist, he pulled her close, refusing to let her out of his grasp. Writhing, she cursed and insulted, slender arms pinwheeling and flailing about.

"damn you, Fiyero! Just _let me go_—!"

He held her tightly, concerned. What had set her off?

"Elphaba," he breathed, rolling the vowels off his tongue. "Just tell me. What's going on?"

However she fought to free herself from his solid arms, it was useless. Torn between denial, panic and the overwhelming need to confide, Elphaba was paralyzed. Sooner or later she would have to admit, against all reason, to herself—she loved him. She knew it now, knew for sure—but what good did that do, anyway? Things would never be the same, if she told him. Things already were different, because he knew—how could he not?—that something was wrong.

Her life was fragile enough, things hung in too precarious a balance; no, for Fiyero's own good, he couldn't know. Surely he wouldn't feel the same if he knew--although he might stay with her out of guilt, perhaps, but the knowledge would hurt him. She couldn't do that to Fiyero.

His arms around her waist, hands massaging the small of her back…if only time would cease its tirade and leave her be. If only the world could stop. She had to harden herself, push him away…for his own good. Not for her, no, there was nothing in her life worth preserving.

With excruciating, suicidal clarity, she decided. It was the lesser of two evils—hurt him now, make it as painless as she could, maybe disappear. He would never have to know. For telling him, that would surely be the more painful to bear.


End file.
